


Vacation

by gala_apples



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Established Relationship, Fake AH Crew, Heist, M/M, Vacation, jailbreak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 11:23:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2849147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The cycle of a murder break (as observed by Los Santos citizens).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vacation

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas Jasley! I love you and I love that you got me into this fandom. (and I deserve a gold star for the amount of research I did without asking you a thing to alert you)

1.  
The night’s heist barely even qualifies for the name. If Ray had to guess he’d say it’s less about the money, more just to calm the more restless members of the crew. Whatever, that’s fine with him. He doesn’t make the cut for ‘highly agitable’ but he’s not the type to turn down a night of reckless violence either.

There are eight Quik Gas stations in Los Santos. The task is for each member of Fake AH to rob one, the only rule being no calling dibs on stores. Ray has the Atlee Street one all to himself, but judging from the bickering over the earpieces Michael and Gavin both initially headed to the Hawick Avenue station. Ray has his clerk and customers sniped and stolen from before Gavin manages to out-stubborn Michael and claim the Quik Gas for his own.

His mini-heist done, he settles on the roof opposite the station to wait. It’s not a drag, he’s got five radio channels at once blaring in his ears for entertainment. Well, sort of. Michael’s not at a new location yet, so his feed is just mutterings about how much of a fucker Gavin is. That sort of thing is funniest when Gavin’s attempting to stick up for himself, but he’s busy. But Geoff’s charming his way through a hold up, telling sweet lies about nobody getting hurt. It’s been a while since Ray took an English class, but he’s pretty sure that’s dramatic irony, him knowing why Geoff’s words are so damn funny while the customers desperately believe.

Ray’s listening to Jack actually pretending to be a hostage in front of the pigs -it’s either an interesting strategy or Jack relieving boredom, Ray’s not sure- when he realises it’s been too long since he’s heard Ryan. He calls out a code name of Ryan’s at random. They weren’t supposed to need them tonight so there are no officially assigned ones. He doesn’t get a response, and that’s when the other guys start to pay attention. Michael, safe in his stolen car, is able to just start shouting Ryan’s name. Jack can’t do that, locked into the decision he made. Ray doesn’t have the same problem. He picks up and runs. His plan for shooting first responders is nothing compared to checking on crew.

Ryan’s in the Quik Gas on Clinton Avenue. Process of elimination said was that or the Fenwell Place station, and Ray’s glad he guessed right because shit is insane. Someone’s shot, the linoleum floor is absolutely flooded with blood. But that’s past action. Current action is Ryan wrestling with the clerk. Wrestling, and not exactly _winning_.

Ray does what he does best. He aims. 

The brain matter on Ryan’s face is still hot when Ray runs to him. Closer up it’s obvious he’s the one shot. The arm of Ryan’s formerly brown leather jacket is now practically black with blood. Ray helps him heave the corpse to the side, and then Ryan’s jamming his fist against where the wound probably is. It’s gotta hurt like a bitch, the twitch of eye underneath the mask says it all.

“What the fuck happened? Why didn’t you snap his fucking neck?”

It’s Ryan’s arm that’s torrenting blood, but all it takes is one arm and a firm surface to crush a throat.

“I said earlier I’m on a murder break.”

“That doesn’t count when people are trying to kill you!” Ray shouts. Everyone except Jack is doing the same in his ear.

“You’re the only five who don’t try to kill me. It has to mean something when I decide it.”

“Go sit in the car while I blow this place up.” He’s not Michael so normally he wouldn’t, but crew blood can’t become collected evidence. And if Ryan hasn’t bled out already, he can suffer and wait for five more minutes while Ray plants the C4. Maybe it’ll teach him a lesson about principles and priorities.

2.  
Lindsay sees the same handful of injuries again and again. Sprains and hairline fractures from jumping off roofs and out of second floor windows. Stab wounds. Mixed blunt and sharp force head trauma from pool cues, whiskey bottles, and stools. Dog bites. Road rash from falling off a motorcycle. There’s never a time when at least one of the Fake AH Crew isn’t hurt. She’d feel bad for them, except it keeps her in the green. And in defensive weaponry, because the boys care about her wellbeing.

This isn’t the first time someone’s been shot, but it is in the first five. Usually Ray and Geoff put a stop to that sort of thing before it escalates. That’s what a planner and a sniper are for.

Medical training and common sense tell her that surgical attempts to find a bullet usually cause more harm than good, but Lindsay doesn’t have much of a choice. The customer is always right -especially when the customer is a leather wearing criminal in a brutal gang- and the customer wants it out. Bullets can be traced back to guns, and Ryan’s not the type to leave loose ends.

“At least you got him or her back double, right?” Lindsay comments, tool an inch deep in Ryan’s arm. 

He should be under anesthetic right now, but Ryan is the straight edge to Ray’s drug habit and at this point in their professional relationship she knows better than to even suggest. Maybe he gets off on the agony, maybe he doesn’t. She wouldn’t know. The full head mask never comes off for her to see an expression when she’s painfully righting the wrongs of a post-heist body.

“I’m on a murder break.”

Lindsay almost laughs before realising Ryan’s serious. “The boys aren’t going to like that.”

“They’ll deal,” Ryan replies. 

And Lindsay could say that of course Geoff will, Geoff knows how to make a plan out of any and everything. She could say that Jack might even appreciate it, being the least violent of the bunch. She could say that she’s not deaf, she hears the tone of fondness in his voice and knows he knows they love him and they’ll value his decisions.

But she doesn’t say anything at all, because the bullet is impinging on a nerve. She can’t afford for Ryan to flinch, and who knows how he’ll react to her saying the L word? Gavin redislocated his arm when the tension of Michael pacing over his boi made her say it three months ago. He flinched with her hands still gripping him, and only a quick bout of self blame from Gavin stopped Michael from shooting her in a rage.

Ryan takes the bullet when he leaves. Technically it should be disposed of medically. But then, technically Lindsay shouldn’t have removed it in her basement. It all evens out in the end, and if it doesn’t, the stacks of bills hidden in her walls can help prop up the dipping end of the scale.

3.  
Kerry’s not stupid. He knows substituting in on the occasional heist doesn’t make him part of the fake AH Crew. And even if he was stupid, the signs are pretty clear.

For one thing, he never understands the private jokes embedded in their always changing code names. There’s years of references in them, and never a good reason to ask them to explain. Asking Michael why he’s Mogar will get an eyeroll from the man in question, and a glare from Geoff for wasting time.

For another, he never gets to wear a matching costume. They’ll tell him to wear red, or a t-shirt with a slogan on it, sure. But either he’s watching six ominous masks on the evening news, or it’s five and he’s the dopey sixth.

Most obviously, there’s no concern there. It’s not that they don’t watch his back. They do, as much as the heist allows for it. If he’s left alone to deal it’s because everyone is fulfilling their own tasks so the entire con doesn’t fall apart. But the others keep up a steady stream of commentary whenever possible, five voices all talking over each other and insulting and cheering so quickly that it’s nearly impossible to keep up. And Kerry doesn’t talk, and they don’t _care_. 

But he gets his part of the take, which is what matters. He needs to keep Miles in the style he’s accustomed to. He needs to make sure Miles never has to do anything more illegal than overcharge his asshole customers and undercharge the friendlies.

This time around Kerry’s substituting for Ryan. The heist is supposed to be on a yacht. Some asshole Kerry hasn’t bothered to remember the name of has some diamonds no one’s supposed to know about. Tough shit for him that his jeweller has loose lips. Kerry’s one of the three who are approaching on a Seashark. From boarding the yacht steps two three and four are a little up in the air. Whatever Geoff ends up yelling at them to do.

The plan goes tits up from the start. Almost literally. One minute Kerry’s the middle point in a flying V, water choppy under their raging machines but nothing they can’t handle. The next he’s one of two Seasharks, he catches a glimpse of a body flying chest first through the air, and when he looks in the rear view mirror there’s a gasoline fire on the water, rapidly getting smaller behind him as his machine speeds forward. 

Oh, and there’s a goddamn helicopter above them. _Not_ the helicopter Gavin’s supposed to have commandeered- unless he was stupid enough to steal a cop one. Not that Kerry really cares about police and their precious property; they don’t own shit as far as he’s concerned. It’s just that stealing what a cop considers his is good way to get Fake AH on the radar too quickly. But Kerry’s willing to bet Gavin’s not in it, since it fucking fires on the Seashark to his left. 

Praying that whatever member it is draws fire and avoids getting hit for the foreseeable future, Kerry wrenches his Seashark right and heads back towards the wreckage. It’s easy to find the survivor, and confirm that he has indeed survived being assaulted. Ray’s treading water, and his parkour legs must be pretty powerful because he’s keeping nine pounds of bright pink Special Carbine above the water rather than use his hands to help keep him up. 

Ray puts the gun in the well of the floor before climbing in himself. Kerry doesn’t know why he’s surprised.

“Hold on to me and lean the way I lean.”

“That’s pretty gay.”

Kerry sputters something back about pots and kettles because not only is the entire crew blatantly out about the crew relationship while Kerry can’t afford that with Miles, this is also clearly a functional solution, not a snugglefest.

“Red Herring has got Power Of Math,” he yells next, hopefully loud enough to be heard over the throttling of the engine.

“Eyyyyy!” Ray shouts.

“My boy!” Gavin calls out gleefully.

“Mousetrap, where the fuck are you? There’s a pig helicopter halfway up my colon!”

“I had a setback. I accidentally crashed the first one.”

“How about you hurry up, buddy. Me and King’s Crown are waiting.”

“On my way, Poison, my boi!”

Without a word of warning Ray’s arms around Kerry’s waist pull Kerry’s body to right, hard. It’s enough to force him to jerk the handles of the Seashark. The sudden movement is just enough to avoid the hail of gunfire from above. Kerry doesn’t say thanks. It’s not like it was a favour specific to him, Ray was saving his own ass just as much. But he does decide to give Ray more of a voice, if the arms clamped around him wanna say anything else. It’s clear now that this steering thing is going to be a two way street. Whatever. As long as it gets him home safely to Miles, Kerry can put up with just about anything.

4.  
One of the best decisions they’ve made as a crew, at least in Jack’s opinion, is the way the bedroom in the main condo is set up. It’s literally that; just a room for beds. Dressers, bedside tables, lamps- it’s all shit for other locations. Instead you walk in to see the wide expanse of a king sized mattress, six feet by six and a half. Look to the left, and what’s that? Another king sized mattress? No, you’re not seeing double. No, it’s not a trick with mirrors. They have two, not quite side by side. It’s important to have a walkway, and with that more exits from the bed. It helps with mundane shit, like Ray’s insomnia vs Geoff’s early morning routine vs Michael staying up until dawn, or getting out of the bed to piss without waking up everyone. It’s also a precaution towards a worst case scenario of pigs storming the house. Ain’t nobody got time to roll across twelve feet of mattress and blankets when there’s guns to be picked up.

The beds don’t have assigned sleepers. Jack’s aware that most normal couples end up claiming a side and staying there, but they’re not normal, and they’re definitely not a couple. No one caring, aside from a bit of impatient pillow rearranging, is another thing that helps with sleep schedule accommodation. Everyone just nestles into a free space when they’re ready to sleep.

Well, that or they all fall asleep where they’ve just jizzed and passed out. Which happens a pleasant lot of the time. Considering the amount of time they spend drunk or in Ray’s case high, the amount of time they spend injured, and the amount of time they spend stressed, the volume of boners they get is way above what logic would dictate.

Then again, who could blame their dick for getting interested when two hot crew members start making out? Jack would defy anyone to not get hard. Of course it would be one of their last bodily functions ever, because he’s ready and willing to murder any motherfucker that tries to poach, and he knows the other five are too. But still, it would be understandable.

Tonight is just one variation of that example. Gavin and Ray started it all off, Gavin randomly deciding to clamber onto Ray’s lap in the living room while they were all watching Die Hard for the thousandth time. Twenty minutes later not a single person in the room gave a shit about McClane killing Fritz and Franco. Five minutes after that they were piling into the bedroom.

Jack loves every member of his crew, but Gavin and Ray might be his favourite refuge from their lifestyle. It’s as easy to jerk off as it is to breath, watching them. They’re so sexual and sensual and innocent all at the same time. They’re the only couple that can fuck in the spoon position and make it look like it’s more about the cuddling than Gavin’s cock in Ray’s ass. Ray’s twisted halfway to a Hawkeye Initiative contortion, but that gives him Gavin’s mouth, which is all the smaller man seems to want. Gavin’s hand rubs up and down Ray’s torso, never stopping in one place, never done touching him. 

On the other side of the spectrum is what Michael, Geoff, and Ryan are doing on the second bed. The other king sized mattress is only a few feet away, physically. Actionably speaking, it’s a continent away. 

Jack would put money on it being unloaded, but Geoff’s holding a gun against Michael’s face as he fucks him doggy style. The pressure Geoff’s exerting is probably strong enough that Ryan’s dick can feel it through the thin flesh of Michael’s cheek. Jack doesn’t condemn their fun, and it does truly look like the three are enjoying it, but tonight he’s in a less kinky mood. Reclining so he can kiss the back of Gavin’s neck and jerk off onto his ass is better. For now at least. Maybe tomorrow he’ll want to watch up close and personal as Michael chokes Ryan.

Nearly done, needing more contact to finish, Jack adjusts until he’s in position to suck a hickey on Gavin's shoulder. It isn't the most sensual place on the body, but it’s somewhere that he can reach without interrupting the slow dance Gavin and Ray are doing. Gavin shudders, makes the sweetest hiccuping noise that’s only half muffled by Ray’s open mouth. It’s enough for Jack to come, coat Gavin’s thigh with it. Still, he doesn’t roll away. Snuggled in, he can feel Ray through Gavin. It’s too _nice_ to back off of.

5.  
Geoff doesn’t often care about people not his crew. He has a list of ten others he’d be willing to stick his neck out for. Mental, of course, no reason to give enemies a literal hit list. The list doesn’t get longer than ten. Won’t get longer. Can’t. Whatever verb you want to throw in. Too many companions makes this kind of life impossible. Bad enough he’s weak enough to have ten. 

Still, a real man can figure out how to be strong about being weak. And that’s why he’s breaking Joel out of prison. Because if you’ve gotta love someone, you can at least slaughter all the people who’ve hurt them.

“DGG, We’re down.” Gavino reports in a near whisper. 

Geoff is relieved. Gavino’s the worst at sticking landings. The amount of sprains, breaks and impact bruises Lindsay has treated for the man is ridiculous. Brownman is more likely to shout parkour and throw himself off or at a building with no other warning, but he sticks his goddamn landings. 

Geoff’s also pleasantly surprised. The Los Santos penal system is full of stupid, violent motherfuckers, but his plans didn’t account for them to be stupid enough to not notice four people parachuting into the prison.

Part of Geoff wants to be in there, standing beside over half his crew as they first sneak through and then up the ante to kill through the prison. The majority of his brain -the part that keeps his mastermind role in the crew mostly uncontested- understands that that’s a bad idea. Jackie P is keeping their helicopter in air, it’s Geoff’s job to take out anything trying to take out them. 

“Found prisoner 3994598.”

“Joel,” Geoff can’t help but correct. It’s a bag of dicks for Joel to lose his notoriety just because he’s in jumpsuit orange. Joel’s done too much to deserve anonymity.

Over the sound of Little Pony giggling as he ganks guards, Vagabond sounds distinctly irritated with the correction. Probably because it’s useless information for a mercenary and Vagabond is in leather hood mode right now. Has been all day. He didn’t wake up everyone with a dissociative fit, but when Geoff got up this morning to the scent of Gavin failing at making coffee, Ryan was sleeping with his hood on. He didn’t take it off at breakfast, so they all accepted it was going to be one of those kinds of days.

Vagabond repeats, “found Joel.”

“There’s a problem,” Brownman says.

“Joel wants his cell mate to come too,” Gavino chimes in.

“Joely found a besty? Isn’t that just nice as dicks.”

“So can he?” Gavino asks. 

Geoff knows if he said no Gavino would shoot the strange man in the face with no hesitation. But that’s kind of a shitty way to reintroduce Joel to the rest of the world. “Fuckin’ assholes. Yeah. Fine. Take football friend with you.”

In the general scheme of things it’s probably not the worst sudden kink in a plan. They’ve had fuckin doozies before, like Jack breaking his leg and getting trapped in a car a cop rammed during a chase, or the time Simeon stole back both their getaway cars as they were inside doing the heist. An additional body doesn’t change the majority of the break out technique. Where it gets interesting is Jackie P wasn’t able to steal a cargobob, so they had to make due with an Annihilator. It’s meant to hold six people. Seven was acceptable, cramped but better than abandoning the plan. Eight might be pushing it, especially if they start taking heavy fire and the engine is strained. A few of the crew might have to parachute out early. 

Not Gavino though. Geoff’s not having his successful break out ending with Gavin-paste on a rooftop.

6.  
Being out of prison is fucking great. There are a few things a man truly needs to be living, not just alive. Those things are liquor, companionship, and sex. You’re allowed to not like one; be sober or asexual or an introvert. Not liking two is weird. Not liking all three? In that case someone’s doing you a favour when they stick a gun in your face. Maybe next time around you’ll come out better. 

Adam, being a fucking great specimen of mankind, currently has a beer in hand. He used some of his pre-jail hidden savings to visit a hot as hell hooker, and wasn’t that worth every penny. And to top it off, he bought a kitten on the way home. 

Well, on the way back to Joel’s home. Unlike Adam, Joel had property the bank didn’t seize. But fuck it. The guy managed being with him in a six by eight cell for five months, he can share a four bedroom house for a few weeks while Adam figures life out. One of the first complications is how he’ll have to lay low for a little while, since he’s an escapee. Hard to rent an apartment when his face is on the prime time news. Maybe there are underground realtors? Or maybe he’ll be directed somewhere, given a task as the first payment on the massive favour that was done for him. If a drug runner’s needed outside of Los Santos there’s not much point in looking for a place in Vinewood.

“So are we in their crew?” Adam asks, dropping down onto the couch beside Joel. He had one before, but considering Ice Crew didn’t do shit to get him out of prison, fuck them.

Joel mutes the tv, currently on a stock market channel. He doesn’t turn to look him in eye, but Adam wasn’t expecting it. Eye contact isn’t really something Joel does. Too personal. It’s enough that Joel is bothering to answer him, not leaving him to wonder. So much has been up in the air since Adam got broken out that he appreciates every solid answer.

“No. You can do a job for the Fake AH Crew. You can never be Fake AH Crew.”

“What, really? Why not?” Reynolds sticks his head out of where Adam nestled him in his hoodie, but doesn’t try to venture any further. Adam reaches up to skritch the kitten’s head and continues. “I had a good talk with my clone on the helicopter. I could fit in his crew.” 

“His name’s Jack, and you can’t. Unless you want to suck six dicks at once.”

“What, like a hazing ritual?” It’s not the worst gang initiation Adam’s ever heard of. He’s not gay, but he could imagine sucking a dick. El Cirio makes wannabe bustas cut off their own pinkie finger. Adam likes his fucking hands, thank you very much.

“No, stupid. They’re together.”

“Like _together_? All at once? Like six way boyfriends?” 

Looking back to their cargo bob ride Adam can see some of it. Once everyone had their masks off -except for the hispanic man and the leather skulled man, who both had other masks under their matching masks- the British guy kissed Leather Skull right on the metallic mouth. And Jack seemed awfully friendly with the man in the tuxedo. But all six, at the same time? That just seems like a recipe for infighting and all infighting gets you is caught at a crucial moment.

Joel shrugs. “Why say boyfriend when you can say crew?”

7.  
It’s weird, being the person whose central role in the heist means they’re off to the side for half of the good stuff. It’s not Michael’s first time being the star soaked in blood, but he’s not the norm. 

Usually it’s Ray. There’s build up to taking the shot needed to split the rival gang leader’s eyebrow hair. There’s knowing the math of it. The rest of them, they just point and spray, if they even use guns. Michael’s partial to bats and bombs, personally. Ray though, he knows windage and bullet drop compensation and gravitational vectors like it’s adding two plus two. There’s getting in the fuckin’ zone, which looks totally different on sniping-Ray than normal-night-of-business-Ray. And there’s finding a hide site to bunker down in. Roofs and hillsides Ray’s good at, but he draws the line at the ghilie suit. Or at least that’s what he says when Jack shows him dumb pictures of soldiers dressed up in grass or burlap. But if you ask Michael, a crazy mask and sloganed clothing _is_ a camouflage outfit in downtown Los Santos.

Geoff clocks in pretty regularly too. Fake AH is a gang, not a mob, at core. Geoff’s not the goddamn Don, they can do shit without consulting him. Honestly, Michael’s pretty sure things would rapidly go to shit if Geoff tried to direct his own or Ryan’s every move, or get upset when Gavin tried and failed. Still, he’s generally the Man With The Plan, and with that comes the man who’s gotta figure out a new plan when things go to shit. It’s harder to come up with last second brilliant saves when you’re in a firefight. 

But actually, fuck everyone else. Tonight is about him. Weird or not, Michael’s the one that’s momentarily too good to be dicking around on and above the overpass, waiting for the regularly scheduled bank truck. 

Michael presses the button. 

It detonates. 

It _works_. 

The stretch of overpass plummets down, squashing the few cars underneath but leaving the cars on top intact. The soundtrack is brutal crushing and fifty different pitches of screaming. Michael can hear it all even through the earplugs he had to wear instead of the comm, just this once. The air is full of that sweet explosion smell, as well as the pulverised concrete. It would be hard to see, hard to breathe if the heist mask wasn’t a gas mask. Bright pink, of course, because you gotta keep crew happy. Whatever. Michael’s got a sweet leather jacket and a backpack full of grenades. He can afford the hit on his masculinity.

All five senses full of success, Michael feels such a rush that he got the set up right that he wants to fall to his knees and jerk off. There’s no time for that though. They have to kill every car occupant so there’s no witnesses, then crack open the armoured truck. The faster they do it, the less time the fuckin’ cops have to swarm and try to fuck up their shit. So Michael does what he’s done since he used to get stoned with Ray in junior year before going home to family dinner. He pulls. He pulls in the high until he’s capable of reacting appropriately. Then he gets his gun. It’s small compared to Ray’s and Ryan’s, but he’s not supposed to be gun guy this heist. This part is just a bonus.

The cops come after Geoff’s cracked the armored truck, but before they’ve got the money. There’s nothing Michael can do to hurry up the money. There’s not a lot of room in the truck, Geoff and ...someone packing the duffle bags as quickly as they can takes up as much space as they have. Michael isn’t sure who’s in there with him. When they were planning Geoff just said whoever had the time. Michael would know who if he was wearing a comm. He’d also have a shitton of hearing loss. Probably not worth the sated curiosity.

Since he can’t make the money move faster, Michael’s got no choice but to start hurling grenades. It would be nice to have his rocket launcher, but impossible to take it and a duffle bag crammed with cash while balancing two on a motorcycle, and you don’t drop that kind of beautiful weaponry unless you have to. You never _plan_ to drop it. That’s just fuckin’ sacrilege.

The more distant sound of explosions means either Jack or Gavin is doing the same on the other side of the downed overpass. If Michael looked over he’d be able to tell who. Jack and Gav have different frames, to say the fuckin’ least. It’s a distraction though, and Michael would rather not miss the red dot on his chest. He can get the recap later. Another perspective might spice up _we just shot a bunch of people and a bunch of cops_. Fun for all, yeah, but not one of their best bar tale anecdotes.

8.  
Gavin’s happy he’s not an actor. Actors have to go to premieres. They have to watch their own movies. There’s no _way_ that’s a good experience. Everything would feel so fake, so bullshit. You’d watch the movie and realise the scene that everyone in the audience is sobbing through is the fortieth take of it. 

This though, is different. He’s watching himself on the screen and there’s not a speck of bullshit. How can there be? It’s shaky cell phone footage. Gavin didn’t even know someone was filming him. He’s not faking feelings. Every whoop with every bullet is completely genuine, exactly how he felt. He’ll never be Ray with a gun, competent and sexily efficient. He’ll never be Geoff either, indifferent to something that’s been routine for decades. To Gavin shooting and connecting, the relationship of kickback to blossom of red, it’ll always be exciting.

“So what’s the count?” Jack asks, coming into the room, the only one not there for the last hour at least. Gavin’s been watching the Los Santos Crimebeat News like it’s meth and he’s jonesing since he woke up. Geoff and Ray are definitely deferring to him; less interested but not kicking him in the shins until he hands over the remote. The respective 3DS and the iPhone probably ease their suffering. Michael’s been less patient. After failing to get Ryan or Ray or Geoff to agree that Gavin needs to change the fucking channel, Michael’s chosen to curry favour and alter votes by sucking dick. It’s possible that Geoff’s using the iPhone to take pictures of Michael’s slutty stretched mouth. 

Jack though, he’s been on Skype half the day. They’re not in a 1970’s mob. Contacts aren’t met in pool halls and closed restaurants anymore. Credit needs to be taken where credit is due, and stolen money needs to rejuvenate accounts currently gathering dust. Jack’s the best of them for that kind of work. For him to be venturing back out of the armoury, he must have everything settled. Good. Unless it’s not. Hopefully if he’s got black tidings he’ll wait to tell Geoff until Michael’s done. Gavin’s all about the comeshot.

“The current count’s at eighty six, but they think there might be a few more crushed bodies they can’t get to yet.”

Ray’s right, but it doesn’t tell the whole story. Gavin’s about to get into demographics when Ryan mutes the tv. It’s something they rarely do. They’re a crew of six guys, the getting of attention happens by being louder than everything else. The abrupt silence makes Gavin shift on his cushion, and he’s not the only one. Michael even pulls off Geoff’s dick. Geoff even bloody covers his erection with a throw pillow. By Gavin’s numbers he’d say they’re five out of six disturbed, and hey, something’s probably up with Ryan for the bloke to have done it in the first place.

“So that was one of our biggest body counts and I think-” Ryan pauses. No one interrupts, just in case. “Yeah. I’m gonna take a murder break.”

“Seriously?” Michael asks. The wet red lips and the kneeling position do nothing to take away from the irritated tone.

“I’m not feeling it.”

“Yeah, right _now_. We did a lot yesterday. By the time Geoff plans something you’ll be fine,” Michael continues.

“He can plan something for tomorrow. I just won’t murder anyone,” Ryan volleys.

“Gotta take a piss,” he announces. Gavin doesn’t wait for sarcastic permission, what he gets about fifty percent of the time, just hurries down the hall. He briefly considers the main bathroom, before figuring privacy is better.

Gavin does not take a piss in the master bathroom. He sits on the marble bench in the massive shower and tries to make himself breathe. This isn’t the worst thing in the world, but it could be a precursor to it. It so easily could. And that’s terrifying. Normally Gavin thinks stress is stupid. Pointless. Usually that attitude works for him. It’s also left him with no coping strategies when he can’t shrug it off.

After some amount of time the door opens. For a second Gavin can’t tell who walked in. Despite efforts to stay calm, his breathing is bad enough that his eyesight is spotty. It’s the voice that clues him in.

“Yeah I didn’t think I’d have to pee in the sink.”

The average person would assume _I also have to pee_ is an excuse to hunt down a missing lover. Gavin knows his crew members better than that, and is completely unsurprised when Ray pisses and flushes before joining him in the shower. Ray’s side is warm against his, which is a fresh bit of niceness, like the world was only an hour ago.

“‘Sup.”

“Ryan has to kill people. I mean, not to stay in the crew or something, it’s not like we’re a serial killer cult. But he needs to be able to. I mean-”

“I know. I was the one who found him swimming in his own blood, remember? You only saw him once he was sewed up.”

“So what the fuck? How do we make him stop this mongy murder break bullshit?”

“I dunno. Maybe we can convince Geoff to swap in Kerry for a bit.”

9.  
Ryan doesn’t always sleep in the latest. He’s got no competition in Gavin or Geoff. Those assholes are morning birds. Fuckin’ unnatural to willingly be up at nine or earlier, but whatever. And it’s rarely Ray either. His physiology works like nothing Ryan’s seen before; sleep deprivation only makes him sharper. Not to a point and then there’s a steep downcurve in capability. Ryan’s literally never seen him suffer a negative effect for not sleeping for days on end. Jack and Michael though. They make great company for lazy two pm wake-ups. 

Today it’s Jack. Ryan takes pleasure from nuzzling him awake. Nothing better in the warm afternoon than beard burn and soft hands. 

They spend a lot of time rubbing the stress out of each other’s skin. The first time they’re interrupted it’s by Gavin opening the door. He doesn’t join, just says _awesome_ and then retreats, leaving the door hanging as he does. Ryan doesn’t consider getting up, and neither does Jack. There’s no reason to interrupt what they’re doing just to shut it again. Privacy is for people that don’t have a crew they never abandon. Ryan’s not going to shout an invitation to the rest of the condo, but if they want to walk in and join, why not?

And anyway, the open door works out. Some time later an unidentified member throws a bottle of lotion at them. It clangs against the metal headboard startlingly, but Ryan can’t say that it doesn’t make the next half hour even better.

It’s not until they head for the dressing room that Ryan learns what his crew has done. One of those motherfuckers has taken his leather hood. One of them, or a plot by two or more. He can’t even say Jack’s in the clear. Yes they’ve spent the morning together, but he doesn’t know when it happened. Jack could have done it in the moonlight hours, when Ryan was asleep.

“What the fuck?” Ryan screams.

He storms into the living room, his current nudity not even close to a concern. He doesn’t pick up a weapon on the way. He’s not going to kill crew. Even and especially not in a break phase. But he’s furious and they damn well better recognise it. Just because today isn’t one of the days where he feels ungrounded unless he wears it all day -regardless of if he has any plans to leave the house- doesn’t mean it’s okay to take it away.

To their credit they don’t even try to pretend they don’t know what this is. There are four people scattered across the couches of the open concept floor, and Jack following behind him, quickly pulling up boxers, and none of them ask any stupid questions about what’s wrong. Good. That’s the sort of thing that tries his patience.

“Hey champ,” Geoff starts. “Did you notice what’s on the mannequin?”

No, he didn’t. He’s not sure why that matters, but just in case it does he heads back to the dressing room. It’s Mickey Mouse ears. Ryan picks up the plastic head and tramps back to the living room. Once he’s there he hurls it at Gavin, who squawks and tumbles off the couch trying to avoid the projectile.

“We’re not being smartasses,” Michael says. He sounds almost bored. “You said you didn’t want to murder anyone for a while. The last time you said that you almost got got. So Jack did his usual contacts of contacts thing, and we’re all going to Disneyland.”

Gavin, who has not only stood up, but is draping on him with sheer disregard to potential danger, speaks next. “Friendliest place on earth, right? Not even an opportunity for murder.”

Ryan could stay pissed off. There’s a way to see this as an insult, that they think he’s incompetent in the field when he’s on a downswing. But he could also be impressed with how much they care about his current sensibilities. This is them respecting his need of a break, which was not how it went the first time. Fucked up technique or not, if he doesn’t show gratitude they might not act this way again.

“Tell me where you hid it and I’ll go steal us some suitcases.”

10.  
Sometimes Blaine is surprised at how well life turns out. He gets hit by a car while biking, cash settlement pays off his schooling. His computer blue-screens and he’s finally able to justify buying a sweet ass new laptop. He decides to make a documentary about Disneyland princesses and what they think love is, and he ends up dating one. Two. One. One and a half? It’s complicated. But it’s still awesome enough to make it onto the Life Is Good list.

Blaine sits on one of the benches scattered over the massive property. He got Carver’s schedule wrong, he’s not off for hours yet. By the time he leaves and gets home he’ll have to come back. On the other hand, what’s there to do in the park for three hours? The novelty’s worn off a bit at this point.

Completely unprovoked, the man sitting on the other side of the pastel painted bench says “you should suck his dick.”

“Excuse me?” Blaine doesn’t want to get in a fist fight with some redneck from Kentucky, but there’s some stuff you can’t ignore. If the guy persists, Blaine will throw down.

“You’re dating Tinkerbell. Tinkerbell’s dating Gaston. You and Gaston aren’t currently dating. But you should be. You should suck his dick.”

“What the hell?” Is this guy stalking him? Even half Jenna and Carver’s coworkers don’t know that. And even if Random Blond is a fan stalking him because Blaine’s blown up on Tumblr since the doc came out, why the hell would he think he knows better than Blaine about what to do? “Dude, what the hell do you know?”

“I have two cr- boyfriends riding crap, or probably just entertaining each other while they stand in line to ride crap, and three doing swimmies and bevs. I know my shit.”

“Shit. Orgy at Disneyland.” Blaine’s heard a lot of stories from Jenna, but not one like this. “So if it’s so great, why aren’t you with them?”

The guy micro-shrugs. It wouldn’t be noticeable if Blaine wasn’t watching him intently, trying to figure out if he’s seen the face as an avatar somewhere. “I’m trying to figure out how to tell them I’m ready to go back home, when they came here for me.”

“Do you have to go home? Can you just wait it out until your reservation’s up?” 

Blaine’s not sure why he’s attempting to give this guy advice. Maybe because he did the same, unsolicited or not. Does it count as advice if it’s an extremely obvious solution?

“We don’t _really_ have a reservation. We just have a room in the resort until we want to leave. Jack knows a guy.”

Disney themed rooms are the most in demand property that exists, besides maybe a clean cheap apartment in New York. There’s no way this man and his apparent harem should be able to just extend their stay. “How the hell-”

“We’re kind of someone. Anyway, you should suck Gaston’s dick. She probably feels guilty about dating two people. That’ll ruin everything, eventually. If you date him it’ll be better.”

“What, like we’ll all be honest with each other then? How’s that working out in your orgy relationship?”

“Fine. I’ll just tell them. Maybe they’re ready too.” 

The blond man stands to go start what could be an argument, for reasons Blaine doesn’t know, and Blaine’s curiosity gets the best of him. “Wait. Who the fuck are you that you can mess with Disney? A boy band?” Blaine doesn’t follow that kind of music, so it’s totally possible this guy is the next Justin Timberlake.

“Google Fake AH when you get home,” the man says after a pause just long enough that Blaine thinks he’s not going to say anything. Probably the man will catch hell from his publicist for outing himself to a random stranger.

He walks away then, not bothering with a goodbye. Blaine watches him to see if he meets someone in a line, because this whole encounter has been a thing of blatant nosiness and if his lovers are there, Blaine wants to see. But Random Blond fades into the crowd, so Blaine pulls out his phone to follow up on the only other clue he’s got. Who waits until they’re home to Google something? 

It autocompletes on the H and holy shit. He just got love advice from a terrorist from the wildest gang state in the world. Holy shit. Blaine’s not sure if that’s terrifying, or the best Weird Disneyland Story ever. _Scolded by a mass murderer but not shot in the face_ is some pretty intense silver linings though.


End file.
